Bigger, Stronger, Every Single Day.

Bigger, stronger, every single day.

He broke PRs every time he picked up a bar, his body swelling like bread dough while he slept.

He didn't know it, but soon he'd be an immobile pile of flesh, wiggling fingers and toes, his panicked eyes just poking up over his swollen pecs and traps.

“Lookin real beefy, Frank,” Donny said as he started rubbing down the big musclecam star’s legs with some oil. “Damn straight,” Frank the Tank said as he felt a gentle tingle over his skin--no biggie, really, since he always got a charge whenever the cameras clicked on. He stripped off his shirt, letting Donny’s admirational hands wander, oiling down every inch of him. Frank started strutting around, unaware that since Donny had rubbed on the “special oil,” he’d gained about twenty pounds of watery chub.

“Check out these fuckin biceps,” Frank said cockily, and Donny gave the big arms--jeez, they looked bigger than usual, like he’d just gotten a massive pump. Frank made his pecs bounce, but it felt weird, like they... jiggled a little?

“I bet you’ll look really impressive after you’ve packed on another hundred pounds!” Donny said. Frank just smiled, suddenly starting to feel that something was off. Donny patted Frank’s face, causing the big guy to flinch--he reached up and his whole head felt swollen, his hands sinking into soft cheeks.

“What the fuck?” Frank said, turning suddenly, knocking the bottle of oil off the table behind him when his massive ass swung much wider than he’d expected. Frank’s hands moved down and inspected the newly massive rear end, impossibly round, jiggling up and down with each step.

“NOW you’re a real tank,” Donny said, poking Frank in the round tummy that had expanded out from where there had been abs just a minute ago. Frank reached down to hold his own belly down as it expanded like bread dough. He wobbled back and forth on thighs that had swollen with fat. Donny jiggled Frank’s new chins and then spun him around to the mirror.

The former bodybuilder was now a quivering mass on fat legs that tapered down like an ice cream cone. His arms hung out at an angle now, pushed apart by his widening midsection. With a snap his posing trunks popped off--his dick disappeared in the surrounding chunk, not that Frank could see it past his massive gut anyway. Frank took a step backwards in surprise, but, unaccustomed to the new center of gravity, he toppled over, crying out in surprise when he landed on his gargantuan ass.

“That’s right, Fatty Frank the Tank,” Donny said as Frank’s mass finally stabilized. “You’ve gotta weigh over six-hundred pounds... and I’m gonna fuck that fat ass...”

Immobilized by his bulk, tears streaming down his face, Frank whimpered as he felt Donny’s hands starting to delve into his big, deep crack--knowing that every second of it had been broadcast live to all of his fans.

RICHIE INJOCKNITO

by BrandedX2

Ever since that freak incident that ended Clay Matthews’ career, Richie had been impossible to be around. He’d demanded security cameras in every inch of the locker rooms, he wanted 24-hour personal security, and he was insisting that various members of the auxiliary staff be fired—anybody who gave him a “bad vibe.”

               “You can’t be too fucking careful. I guarantee I’m a prime target for this kind of thing,” Richie barked at his coach, Rex Ryan, kicking a chair across the head coach’s office. “Not enough is being done here!” Richie was a massive investment, the greatest thing the Bills had going for them—and they weren’t doing enough to prevent someone from chemically turning him into a weakling!

               Rex rolled his eyes, tired of Richie’s tantrums. “We’re getting cameras installed and we’ve beefed up security,” he said, watching his star offensive lineman’s hulking body heave with anxious rage. “We can’t just go firing people on a whim,” he said, putting his foot down.

               The employee in question was one of the team’s assistants, a young guy named Perry, who Richie constantly insisted was leering at him, spending too much time around his locker. And Richie swore that little fucker was sniffing his jockstrap once.

               “He washes your uniform, jackass. Quit being paranoid and focus on your job. Nobody’s trying to sabotage you, dumbass.”

               Richie stomped out of Ryan’s office, not ready to give this up yet. He had plenty of enemies, tons of people who would love to see him cut down to size. He was sure he’d be the next target after Matthews, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily. As he passed that little queer Perry in the hallway, he lunged at the little guy; Richie was easily twice his size, and Perry jumped like someone had shot at him. “Stay away from my shit, you little fag,” Richie warned.

               Eric Wood, his fellow offensive lineman and the only one on the team who was unafraid of Richie’s shows of aggression, smirked at his buddy. “Richie, you’re an NFL lineman, over 300 pounds—and that hundred-pounds-soaking-wet little guy has you shaking this bad?”

               Richie flashed a sneer at Wood, who didn’t even flinch. “I can tell when somebody’s looking at me like I’m a t-bone steak,” he said, no stranger to attention. “That kid’s fucking obsessed with me, just like the guy who fucked Matthews’ life over. If anybody was gonna fuck with me, it’d be him.”

               Eric shrugged, flashed Richie a grin, and said, “If I were you, I’d be more worried about the million and a half people out there who hate your fucking guts.” Richie socked him hard in the arm and headed into the locker room, watching the little fag Perry leave with a stack of towels. After a deep inspection of his locker—he was pretty sure everything was where it was supposed to be—he suited up for practice and headed to the field with his teammates.

               About an hour in, it was clear to everyone that Richie was playing like shit. He’d started off strong, but started feeling dizzy after his blood got pumping. He was afraid to admit it, but he felt sluggish and was getting sloppy, even though he’d started the day at full strength. Worse than anything, his cock was bothering him: his junk had gotten increasingly warm as time passed and his cock and balls had started to throb with his heartbeat. Coach Ryan called him over and asked him what was up.

               “I dunno, Coach,” Richie said, starting to shake—had somebody slipped him a drug? Was he going to shrink into a little pussy like Matthews? “I gotta see the team doc, now!”

               Happy to have the annoying lineman out of his hair for a bit, Coach Ryan told him to go get checked out, and Richie hustled off the field.

*

               Richie sat on the examination table wearing only his jockstrap while the Doc looked him over. He flexed his torso as he watched the Doc roll his eyes. “You’d better start taking me a little more seriously, Doc,” Richie threatened.

               The Doc shook his head. “You feel weak and your genitals are irritating you,” he replied, crossing his arms. “I think the only thing that’s entered your system is another sexually transmitted disease. But I’ll take some blood tests and we’ll see if we can figure out what’s wrong with you.” After drawing a few vials of blood, the doctor left the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Richie alone.

Suddenly Richie’s cock felt like it was broiling in the oven—Richie hopped off the table. A few moments before the heat was almost pleasant, but now it felt dangerous. Shit, his whole crotch was dripping sweat--felt like the jockstrap itself had heated up! Reaching down,he tried to yank it off, but fumbled; it felt like it had adhered to his skin somehow. He panicked as he tried to dig his fat fingers under the edge of the jockstrap to no use. "The fuck--" he began, and then went silent as the jockstrap started melting, like hot wax, slowly spreading down his legs. Seconds later, it's gooey remains gently absorbed into Richie's skin, and it was gone. He stood there, naked and shocked, and stared at his big form in the mirror, wondering if he'd been slipped some sort of drug.

Suddenly Richie's vision grew hazy, like he was looking out at the world through gauze, and he started as he felt himself slowly sinking to the floor as his limbs started to sag under his weight. He tried to yell for the doc, but his voice came out a hoarse whisper, and then nothing. One last look in the mirror and saw his skin had faded too a pale white and was drooping limply to the floor like a cartoon character. He turned to the door and tried to crawl for help, but he was moving more slowly with every second. The warmth had spread to his entire body, felt like it was blanketing his thoughts. He started to feel pleasantly numb, and also something else--lighter, like his body was evaporating. It was too much for him to comprehend, and as he settled back on the floor, praying it would end soon, he found himself just staring blankly up at the ceiling. He couldn't move--he couldn't even feel a body too move, just stared up at the tiles and the fluorescent lighting which seemed impossibly far away as waves of numbness washed over him.

Richie was startled from his daze by the sound of footsteps, and the Doc's voice: "Incognito?" he asked.

"I'm right here!" Richie shouted.

"Where the hell did he go?"

"Fuck--doc, I'm on the floor... Paralyzed or something! Can't you hear me? Dammit!"

Suddenly realized the Doc was standing above him--and he was HUGE! He seemed big as a building, the room bigger than any stadium Richie had ever played in. The Doc crouched down, which only further emphasized how big he was--or was Richie small? What the fuck had happened?

"What, is he running around naked?" Said the doc, one eyebrow cocked in confusion. He reached down and Richie screamed (although, apparently, only he could hear it) as he felt the Doc's fingers grasp him, felt himself lifted effortlessly off the ground. The sensations were mindblowing, like he'd taken a hit of super-ecstasy, and he was overcome by panic as he tried to make sense of his own body. He felt so small, and light, and hung limply in the hands of the Doc who picked him up without effort.

Looking around, the doc turned (dizzying Richie with the sudden movement), facing the mirror, and it took Richie several seconds to comprehend what he saw: the doc wasn't holding Richie, but a jockstrap--probably the jockstrap Richie was just wearing. As the Doc moved his hands, Richie felt himself move in sync with the image of the jockstrap in the mirror.

"I didn’t study for over a decade to take care of that overpaid gorillas’ laundry," sighed the Doc, stomping into the hallway, while Richie silently tried to wake up from this dream. "Hey, you--you're on the auxiliary staff, right?" asked the Doc. Richie couldn't see who he was talking to, his vision fixed to face straight up from the Doc's hand no matter how much he struggled to move.

"Yes sir," said a high-pitched, familiar voice.

"You wanna just take this to the laundry? I've had enough handling egotistical athletes' dirty laundry today."

"Sure," said the voice--and as the Doc handed Richie over, the helpless lineman saw the face of Perry, just as big as the Doc had been, as he reached out and grabbed Richie tightly.

Then they were moving, the surrounding passing in a blur as Richie lost all sense of direction. Perry gathered Richie up into a tight ball, clutching him in his fist--Richie bellowed and moaned as his senses were twisted by the feeling of being twisted in ways he'd never imagined before. Richie heard a door squeak open, felt Perry hurry inside somewhere, and then he was dropped on something cool--tile? Where the fuck was he?

"How do you like your new body?" Perry said, leaning in closely to Richie.

"What the fuck is going on?" Richie screamed. "Did you do this?" But the sound seemed to stay in his own head--he couldn't feel a mouth or a tongue to speak with. He tried to concentrate, to get control of his freakish new shape. After a few moments of struggling, he managed to emit an airy gasp--but that was all, and he felt exhausted.

"Aw, there's still a little human in you," Perry said with a chuckle, poking Richie in various places with his fingers. Every touch was like a gentle burst of sexual pleasure in Richie's mind, disrupting his feelings of rage and helplessness.

"Lemme show you," Perry said, suddenly lifting Richie up--okay, now he could see, they were in the locker room, near the sinks, and in the mirror Richie saw Perry holding a jockstrap. He could vaguely make out some features imprinted in the jock's fabric--holy shit, was that his FACE?

"I am not a jockstrap!" Richie screamed, as he watched the image of his face slowly evaporating in the white cotton. "I am not a fucking jockstrap!"

"If it makes you feel any better," Perry said, rubbing the jock against his face (Richie squealed as he was overcome by the unbelievable sensitivity of his jockstrap body), “You were absolutely right—you DID have an admirer, and he paid me to slip that formula onto your jockstrap. And now I’m going to deliver you right to him!"

Suddenly, Perry started--Richie could hear the sound of people approaching. "Thank God," Richie thought, "someone's gonna save me!" But Perry just quickly shoveled toward something--a locker? Richie heard it open, felt himself shoved into darkness—“Enjoy your new life as an object!” Perry whispered as he slammed the door shut. Then, nothing.

For a little while—seconds, hours, Richie was too overwhelmed by his new state to tell the difference—Richie squealed, silently, adjusting to his hypersensitive new body, the feeling of being crumpled up, trying to feel for arms and legs that just weren’t part of him anymore. The darkness seemed to soothe him, and he started to collect his thoughts. He was sure this was no dream, as impossible as it seemed, and he had to figure a way out. There was noise outside, in the locker room. There had to be some way he could get their attention. As time passed, though, a dull numbness settled over his senses. His panic subsided, and he felt himself starting to relax…

           …fuck! He wasn’t a jockstrap! He couldn’t just give in! Perry had said there was, “still a little human,” in him. He realized with horror that it was starting to fade away.

           Suddenly the locker door squeaked open. Richie was blinded by the sudden light. A thick hand suddenly grabbed him and held him up—it was Eric! He stared into his buddy’s big burly face, overwhelmed by the massive size of his teammate, and by the feeling of his fingers clutching him tightly. “It’s me!” shouted Richie, remembering that before, he’d been able to make his face appear with some concentration. He put everything he had into it, and tried to force out some words, but all that came out was a soft hiss and a faint exhalation. Eric grinned, his eyes lighting up.

           “Well, lookie here,” he said, looking around the locker room. There didn’t seem to be anyone left hanging around. “Is that you, Richie?” Richie’s heart leapt—Eric had figured it out, and he knew the big lug wouldn’t let him down. Eric leaned forward and inhaled deeply. “Wow, Richie, you sure smell clean.”

           What the fuck? Eric didn’t seem surprised at all. “C’mon man!” Richie shouted. “Get some help!”

           “You’re not gonna smell clean for long,” Eric said, gently hanging Richie from the open locker door. From his new vantage point, Richie could see that Eric had stripped down to his own jockstrap, which he yanked down with one thumb. To Richie he looked like a hairy mountain of man, bigger than anything Richie’d ever seen before. “You’re gonna be my new lucky jockstrap,” Eric said sweetly. Richie felt a sickening rush as Eric grabbed him and slid his massive thighs into each of Richie’s holes.

           “No!” Richie shouted. “Don’t fucking wear me! NO!” But Richie knew his protests weren’t heard. As he slowly slid up Eric’s tree trunks, he was shocked to feel himself suddenly filled with Eric’s big, uncut cock and his hefty balls. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by Eric’s warmth, the sweaty funk of his crotch, the taste of his slowly stiffening member.

           “Look at that,” Eric said, patting his jockstrap-buddy. “Looks like my cock is where your brain used to be!” The part of Richie that was furious at what had been done to him, that was terrified of this situation, slowly faded away. His own thoughts seemed to die out, overwhelmed by his senses which were now full of Eric Wood… and he loved it. He gently squeezed around Eric’s sex—gently massaging against the thing that filled him, the thing he belonged to now. Eric moaned softly as Richie slipped into a dull, blissful trance.

           Later on, Richie was startled into awareness again when he felt himself stripped from his master’s body. He’d never felt so empty before, so desolate and alone, as he felt the big, warm, smelly body getting further and further away from him.

           “Jockstraps don’t sleep in a bed,” Eric said, staring down at him. “They sleep in a drawer. See you tomorrow, Richie.”

           Richie screamed, to no avail, as Eric slid the drawer shut. Richie wailed all night, even though no one could hear, until Eric took him out again the next day.

After the game, Jason saw the mysterious number pop up on his cell phone. Truthfully, he’d been waiting for it. He snuck away to a private part of the locker room and answered it. “You still wearing it?” asked the mysterious voice.

Jason’s dick went hard, his mouth dry. He slowly ran a hand under his pants, gently fingering the strap of the jockstrap the voice was referring to. “Yes,” he replied weakly. “Good. Go home and make sure you’re alone. Wait for me to call.”

The line went dead, and Jason found himself weak on his feet.

The jockstrap didn’t look remarkable at all. In fact, Jason hadn’t noticing anything unusual about it until he slid it over his legs the day it appeared in his locker (he’d figured it was one of his own). Minutes after sliding it on, he felt a strange buzzing in his backside, a low tickle up his crack that he tried to ignore; he had a game to play. It grew in intensity as time went on, and he couldn’t focus on football at all, only the crazy itch up his backside. He played like shit, got screamed at by his coach, then snuck to the bathroom to stick a thick finger up there to finally hit the spot that had antagonized him all day--but when he finally itched it, he broke into a sweat, his legs wobbly under his weight, as the feel of his finger up his hole sent waves through his body. He almost blacked out. One of his teammates banged on the bathroom door. “You okay in there Jason?” He stammered a response and slid out of the bathroom, prancing like a ballerina as the buzz returned at full force. All he could think about was his ass, and trying to look like nothing was wrong in front of his teammates. 

Back in the locker room he started to undress. When the jock hit the floor, the feeling cut off immediately. He exhaled deeply, relieved to be free of that antagonizing itch, but unable to get it off his mind.

He made the connection instantly--wearing the jockstrap made his ass light up like that--and took that jock home with him. That first night he slid the jockstrap on and kicked his legs up into air, slinging drool as he moaned with two fingers deep in his big ass. He couldn’t believe it when he shot his first load without even touching his own dick. He was even more shocked when he found he didn’t want to stop, milking out four loads before finally collapsing in sweaty exhaustion on his bed, eager to go again but too exhausted to move.

Then came the phone calls, demanding that he wear the jock at all times. He didn’t have to be asked twice.

But this was the first time he’d been given any other order other than, “wear the jockstrap.” He hurried home, as he’d been told, and when he got through the front door of his condo, he locked it, stripped down to the jock and sat back on a chair, one leg up in the air, digging tenaciously up his hole with a toothbrush he’d bought just for the occasion. His heart leapt when he heard the knock at the door--half from fear of being discovered, the other from excitement; he knew it was the person from the phone, and a part of him desperately wanted to meet him.

As Jason unlocked the door, the skinny blonde guy strode into the condo like he’d been there a million times. Jason advanced on him but the blonde, a couple of inches shorter than Jason but easily a third of his weight, put a hand up on Jason’s chest and he stopped in his tracks.

With a smirk, the blonde walked a lap around Jason, whose thick hairy body was dewy with sweat. He felt naked, standing there in only a jockstrap, and vulnerable as the blonde inspected him like he was a farm animal.

This was Jason’s condo--he was a lineman, massive compared to this little wimp! And the blonde had a feminine way about him. He felt a surge of aggression as he tried to take control of the situation, to one-hand the little fag through the wall, but it all died out instantly as the blonde spoke.

“Very nice,” the blonde said, raising an eyebrow. He reached out and scooped Jason’s jock-clad cock and balls up in his hand, holding them up like he was weighing them. When the blonde dropped them, he smelled his hand. Jason whimpered, and felt shameful for doing so.

“You haven’t washed it, have you? You’re enjoying what my little jockstrap is doing for you, aren’t you?” The blonde walked behind Jason (who wanted to turn to see what was going on back there but couldn’t get his head to obey) and fell to his knees. He started gently blowing on Jason’s crack, using his hands to spread it open. The big lineman shook on his feet, whimpering like he was in heat. His high-pitched moaning humiliated him but he couldn’t fight the sensations blasting through his body, greater than any thought he could muster.

“Good. Looks like you’re ready,” said the blonde as he walked around to Jason’s front again. “Just a few alterations that should be kicking in... now.” He punctuated the last word with a loud snap of his fingers and suddenly the buzzing in Jason’s ass roared with the force of a jet engine, spreading through his entire body.

Suddenly the blonde seemed to grow--fuck, the whole room seemed to enlarge. Jason looked wide-eyed up at the ceiling, which grew further and further away. Then he looked down at himself. His big body was compressing, his bones compacting, his dense musclefat body reducing.

Well, almost all of his body. He felt a swelling in his asscheeks and watched in horror as they inflated like truck tires. He put two hands down on them to find them swollen up like a shelf behind him. The large buttocks were firm but he could sink his hands into the soft warm flesh--and that feeling made a line of drool pour from his mouth down his chin. The feeling of this impossibly huge ass made him feel unwieldy, his center of balance totally different from what he was used to. He wondered what sitting down would feel like.

On his front, he watched as his cock dwindled like the rest of him--but his balls swelled up like his ass! He couldn’t believe how big they’d gotten. He reached down with a hand and couldn’t hold all of his big swollen sac. He needed two hands just to lift their new bulk. His cock-head was all that was left of his shaft, sitting on top of the massive swollen balls and starting to drool out precum in a slowly spreading sticky stain.

The changes more or less finished, Jason looked up--UP!--at the blonde. His eyeline came to about the blonde’s navel. Jason’s beefy lineman body had remained in proportion (with the exception of the changes to his junk and his caboose) but he couldn’t believe how small he felt next to the BIG blonde--the word “Master” suddenly appeared in his head with a capital M. Master smirked down at him and patted him on the head. Jason leaned into the gesture.

Suddenly Jason’s thoughts reordered themselves. Wasn’t he supposed to be big and strong? No, that couldn’t be. He was just a little guy--and from the looks of his body, he had an ass built just for fucking and a useless little nub of a cock that sat on two massive bull-balls just waiting to spill gallons of cum. His body seemed structured for only one purpose: pleasing his master.

The buzzing in Jason’s ass had spread to his brain, drowning out all other thought, and Jason looked hungrily up as his master dropped his pants and revealed his own swollen dick. Jason looked around Master’s condo, thankful to have someone to serve, and couldn’t wait to feel that juicy cock inside him.

Jason Gamble

I'm posting this mostly because I know @absqrst and @worldofsize will probably dig it, but for the purposes of making it appropriate for my blog... ...let's just imagine that this team's coaches decided on a new tactic: all of the size, brawn and talent of the white players was going to be slurped out of their bodies and funneled into the black players, whose already big and beefy frames would swell and expand, stretching their uniforms to their limits, some of their football pants busting open, their large beefy asses expanding like an emergency raft, their big cocks flopping forward, swinging like thick pendulums.

This pic was taken during the first few seconds of the transference. The black players flexed their huge hands, their newly gigantic bodies surging with energy and tingling with prowess and confidence. They were larger than any men on Earth, and their next game would be like playing a pee-wee team. Their new sense of power was almost intoxicating.

See that white guy in the back? He was the first player to realize something was amiss, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and a growing sickness in his gut as he was filled, inexplicably, with a feeling he was unaccustomed to: intimidation. He felt the dimensions of the room seeming to change, not only because the black players were rising in height, bloating out with even more beef and muscle, and not just because his own body was compressing, his bones painfully shortening, his muscles dwindling away, but because he suddenly felt helpless in a room full of monsters. The other white players stumbled around in their oversized equipment, blinded by their giant helmets, their impossibly heavy pads, and jerseys that hung like dresses to the floor.

Things were silent for a moment, when a few muffled whimpers from the white players were answered by a low chorus of grunting and heavy breathing from the black players, whose already huge cocks and hefty balls had swelled to inhuman size. Lost in a haze of their own masculine power, the black players felt their bodies pulsing with an energy that overwhelmed their conscious minds--and suddenly found themselves surrounded by slender, narrow-waisted white men whose thin bodies made their pert little asses look all the more tempting.

The coaches exchanged a knowing look and backed out the door, locking it behind them, as their new star players took out their animal urges on the tiny men whose careers were now behind them. Later, the shower room was packed nearly wall-to-wall with gigantic mass as the oversized men turned to get the puny stream of water on every inch of their huge forms. The gallons of testosterone pumping through their bodies had caused a thick manly stench to fog the locker rooms.

Meanwhile, the white players, bruised and battered (their bodies and their egos) gingerly gathered themselves up, covered their embarrassingly scrawny forms and shriveled dinkies and slowly headed for the door, trying to comprehend the new sense of loss that grew within them. They were gulping in lungfuls of the sexual stink, their minds filled with images of the massive veiny cocks, big as arms, filling their virgin asses, now screaming with ache, and blasting torrents of cum all over them. From that moment on, they would crave black cock, seeking to swallow as much as that powerful spunk as they were lucky enough to receive, feeling empty without them.

The coaches unlocked the doors and shooed the disgraceful pipsqueaks from the room without a word, ready for the word of their new super team to terrify the rest of the NFL.

PJ had just started enjoying the emptiness of the gym (which was usually pretty packed at this late hour) and the buzz of his new preworkout when he looked over to notice big Rich Piana leaning against a power rack, resting between sets of squats. He made eye contact with PJ and bounced his eyebrows. PJ turned away, pretending he hadn’t noticed.

He’d been avoiding Rich’s calls for a few weeks now. Twice he’d shown up at PJ’s offices at Blackstone Labs unannounced. Once PJ had to threaten to call security before Rich left, calling him a pussy.

Rich wanted to make a deal with PJ to merge their supplement companies. It was a ridiculous deal; PJ had laughed at it at first, but Rich wasn’t taking no for an answer. Now, in the middle of an aggressive back workout, PJ looked around to find that the gym was entirely empty except for Rich and himself. There was no way he could avoid Rich this time. He turned back to his heavy deadlifts, trying to get busy enough to forget about the gigantic irritant in the room, but between sets he’d turn to find Rich smirking at him from across the gym. It’d be easier, PJ thought, if this guy would just walk over and say what he had to say. PJ grit his teeth; the new preworkout his company’s chemist had cooked up for him to try out was hitting him hard. He was moving massive numbers and did double the number of sets he’d planned on. He couldn’t believe how swole he was when he was finished; he could’ve done the entire thing all over again if his wife wasn’t waiting for him at home.

PJ hit the showers, registering the soreness in his body that set in after he’d finished lifting. His joints ached lightly, and he noticed a persistent little tickle in his jaw. He’d definitely have to see his doc the next day–maybe a trip to the chiropractor and the massage therapist was in order.

As he toweled off his big body, he saw Rich waddle into the room, swinging his bloated arms. “Sup Peej,” he said in his gruff voice. “Got a minute?”

“I’ve given you all the minutes you’re going to get, Rich,” PJ said, tying the towel around his waist. Rich was standing between him and his locker–he’d much rather be clothed when he had this confrontation, but fuck it: if he had to, he’d knock this fucker out naked. “I’m not interested in anything you’ve got for me.” Suddenly the feeling in his jaw flared up. PJ’s tongue searched the interior of his mouth curiously, finding its shape unfamiliar. He tried to ignore it. “See, here’s why you’ll never be a solid businessman: you don’t know how to play the game.” PJ paused, his hand suddenly cramping up. His freshly washed skin felt hot and tingly, and the achiness in his joints started throbbing with his heartbeat. He pushed thoughts of his discomfort out of his mind.

Rich seemed completely unaffected by PJ’s tough words. He crossed his massive arms, waiting for PJ to finish.

“So quit wasting your time hassling me,” PJ finished, starting to walk past Rich. He stumbled, his feet cramping up. He couldn’t put his heel down for some reason, and he found himself standing unsteadily on his toes.

“You feelin’ okay there, PJ?” Rich said, walking a slow circle around PJ with a wide grin. “See, here’s the thing: a lot of people think I am a solid businessman, and that you’re a sinking ship. People have already bailed on you, and you haven’t even noticed, have you?”

PJ was confused by what Rich was saying, but more disconcerting was the crackling sound coming from his jaw. He turned from Rich and put a hand over his mouth, which suddenly felt… Too full? His nipples, suddenly incredibly sensitive, turned rock hard as a cool breeze brushed across them. He took a look down his massive muscular torso and was shocked to find he now had six new nipples spaced out below the old ones right down his abs. They too got rock hard in the chilly air.

“What are you–” PJ found his tongue clumsily trying to navigate around two new growths in his mouth. His hand carefully felt out two “tusks” which poked up from his bottom lip.

“See,” Rich continued, “I made a deal to your chemist awhile ago, and he liked what he heard. But I had him stick with your little company for awhile, slipping you a new product I came up with. You, and your little buddy Aaron, have been taking a nice new chemical for months now, changing you guys on a cellular level. And today we just added something new to make all those changes come to surface. Pretty sure you’re feeling that now, though.”

PJ groaned in response as he felt his face pushing painfully forward. He reached up to press it back with his hands but found his fingers had fused together into two solid masses, solidifying into–fuck, they were becoming hooves! PJ’s breathing had quickened and he noticed with every exhalation he was making an animal grunting noise.

Rich reached out and yanked PJ’s towel off. His body underneath the towel had been changing too: his cock and balls had twisted up into something you’d find on a farm animal, and behind him, PJ could feel the wiggling of a little corkscrew tail sprouting out from his tailbone. At this, PJ SQUEALED–it was the only sound he could make as his face continued to rearrange itself. He could see his own nose now, pushed out into a snout that oozed sticky drool.

PJ couldn’t stay remain balanced on his toes any longer. He wobbled a bit, then collapsed forward. He was shocked when his front hands (hooves?) struck the ground far sooner than he’d expected. It seemed his arms had lengthened (no, his legs had shortened!), his hips rotating so that he could comfortably stand on four legs now.

“Lookin good, PJ!” Rich said, snapping some pics with his phone. He held the evidence up to PJ’s horrified eyes: about half of PJ’s huge muscular body had been replaced by pig parts, fused permanently with his tanned bulk. He could see his shoulders had started narrowing, his torso gaining some flabby bulk, his horrified face nearly overtaken by one of a dumb animal. PJ trotted around on his hooves, wishing there was some way to escape. He squealed and oinked loudly, looking toward the doors. “Oh, yeah, I paid the gym owner to lock the doors. It’s just us in here. Nobody’s going to bother us.” PJ’s hard hooves made a clattering against the tile floor as he moved in a panicked circle.

“So, here’s the thing,” Rich said, squatting down (PJ’s adversary seemed HUGE to him now–but it was more than likely that his own body had gotten smaller, something that made PJ squeal and grunt even more). Rich poked his phone a few times. “I visited Aaron, your CEO, earlier today. Made him an offer he didn’t like either. I warned him I’d have you two out of the way one way or another. He laughed for a second. Wanna see what happened to him next?”

Rich held his phone up to reveal a video of PJ’s business partner, big beefy Aaron Singerman, hunched over his desk, writhing. Aaron looked up at the camera to reveal a face morphing similar to PJ’s had, except it was pushing into a longer snout with big dopey teeth and floppy grey ears covered with velvety fur. PJ was horrified as he heard Aaron let out a long, deep, “HEEEEE-haaaaw!” Then Aaron spun around, the seat of his suit pants splitting open as a jackasses hindquarters burst out.

“So we’ll see how your company does without you two in charge,” Rich said, patting PJ on the head. “I’m gonna buy it for chump change in a few months. But you won’t be around to see it. Arranged for you and your buddy Aaron to be shipped out to a farm. Let’s hope they keep you got breeding, little buddy.” Rich snapped another pic of PJ, then revealed it. PJ didn’t recognize the animal in the picture; there wasn’t a trace of humanity, just a hairy, spotty pig with a confused look on its face. PJ looked around the bathroom, which seemed to have tripled in size. He moved his short legs, trying to get away, but Rich had already snatched him up in his big powerful hands and walked him to the emergency exit which he kicked open to the parking lot. PJ kicked and squealed to no avail.

Outside Rich led PJ to a trailer, plopping the former bodybuilder inside roughly. PJ skitted around the narrow space, covered with hay. Rich waved goodbye to the pig, then flexed his huge arm. PJ looked enviously at the man with his hands and muscles, remembering when he too was big and strong, walking on two legs just minutes before. Now he couldn’t even bend his head to look down at his body, but as he anxiously wiggled, he could feel how fat and useless it had become.

Rich slammed the door shut and PJ squealed and oinked as he realized there was no escape. From another compartment in the trailer, PJ heard a jackass’s long, sad bray. Then he heard a motor start, dragging him toward his new life.